


Foutu Jurançon.

by FreyaLor



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 02:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12666711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: A Tumblr prompt from Lustig.Armand and Treville are having fun in a dark, hidden room of the Louvres. A courtier comes in. Armand shoots him dead. Quite a mess follows. Blame Lustig for all that mess.





	Foutu Jurançon.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lustig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/gifts).



 

 

 

 

 

 

As I find myself gaping, staring at the brains of a dead man splattered upon the hard-tiled floor, his blood-soaked face frozen in a grotesque mask of surprise, all my blurred mind can come up with is “ _foutu Jurançon_ ”.

 

It is true. It’s all the Jurançon’s fault.

In the morning, a King realizes it’s the anniversary of his father’s death. In the late hours of the evening a man dies, his head blown into bits. Right in between those facts, lies the bloody Jurançon.

 

The Vert Galant, Lord bless his soul, was many things including a loving father, and his son Louis’ adoration for him never receded with time. Every year, on the day the fateful blade of a red-haired lunatic called Ravaillac had stolen his father from him, Louis orders the whole Louvres to remember. Henry the Fourth’s white banner is to be hanged on every wall, his portraits covered in roses and carnations, and at every meal, his favorite wine must be served.

Richelieu managed to refuse the dammed white poison at noon without too much of a fuss, elegantly mentioning his health and the Council scheduled for the afternoon.

He refused it all the same, three more times, during the council itself. 

But for supper, considering the _magnificent energy_ the Cardinal had shown all afternoon in speeches and theatric moves, hints and allegations, threats and high praises, to persuade the King to cut the Louvres’ costs in half and raise an army for the Southern border, Louis laughed away all excuses about his health.

 

-“Don’t you think my father’s day deserves one drink, Cardinal?” The King muttered, and Richelieu never had been stupid enough to ignore the danger in Louis’ voice.

 

-“Of course it does, Your Majesty” He breathed, bowing his head slightly as the Court’s cupbearer poured the strong white wine in his glass.

 

Even from afar, at the Officer’s table, I found it hard to hide a smile. I had sympathy for Armand, I swear, because he barely drinks, and when he does, it is never stronger than the regular red wine of the Court, which is basically water and spices. But something dark in me remembered how _eager_ he can be when he’s drunk, and I was already, I must confess, preparing my ambush.

I watched between mirth and concern Louis keeping a heavy stare upon Armand all supper long, ordering with a nod his glass to be refilled at a merciless pace. Richelieu accepted his fate, aware, no doubt, that most of it was Louis’ revenge for the Hell he unleashed at the Council.

I myself had a taste of that deceitful liquid King Henry was so fond of, and I winced at the fire it spread into my guts. God, how could one dagger kill a man who drank five bottles of _this_ a day?

Henry the Fourth deserves every word of his legend.

 

It was already late in the evening when Louis grew tired of waiting for the Cardinal to do something embarrassing. Even through the King’s constant nagging and scrutiny, Armand bravely stood his ground, speaking clear and bright, moving sharp and quick. I wondered if anyone other than me noticed the deepening frown of his brow, a warning sign of his efforts.

Disappointed, Louis left the table, and Armand’s fingertips weakly rubbed his temple in relief.

He excused himself no more than ten seconds later, and I followed unnoticed, because no one cares about the Officers table anyways.

I joined him in the gardens, under the wide arcades that led from the Great Hall to the Palais Cardinal. He walked straight, his chin held high, his stance flawless, but God, he walked slow. I gently touched his hand and he turned to me already smiling, because he wasn’t drunk enough to be deaf to the sound of my footsteps. I don’t think he ever will be.

 

We talked, this I am sure of, though I don’t remember what we spoke about. We talked in hushed voices, and at some point, I noticed the moonlight glow upon his hair again, and I couldn’t refrain from touching it. He looked around, his eyes narrowed, but still leaned into the touch with a low whimper, and soon enough he breathed my name like only he can do, sealing my fate for that night.

 

I pushed him backwards to the small door of an unused chapel under the clock tower of the Louvres. The place was cold and forlorn, stripped of its decorum since the building of the magnificent Chapelle Royale and used from that moment as no more than cubby for the gardeners. But I swear it was made holy by his presence, even flustered and panting, his back hitting the ancient altar with bruising force. The door slammed shut and I kissed him hard, open-mouthed and messy, tasting the infamous Jurançon on his fevered lips.

Oh, Lord, _eager he was._

 

He gripped my doublet to pull me against him, leaning back upon the cold stone wall. The sight he was, framed by what was left of the ancient altar, like a moonlit icon painted by the most skilled of all blasphemers. I would have been content with a few kisses I swear, but his eyes were blurred, and his hands fearless. He grabbed my crotch, giving it an expert squeeze, whispering the most sinful praise I ever heard. I cried out, catching fire, and started to open his robes with a hunger I could hardly believe.

I pushed the fabric down his shoulders, and he wore them like a stole once more, his white skin offered to the chilly night air without the slightest shiver. He was already hard, flushed pink and twitching, which is rare enough to drive me insane. Famished, I moved to kneel, licking my lips in raw want, but he refused as always, making a quick work of my belt and pants instead. His fingers closed around my shaft with confident accuracy, knowing how, and knowing when. ‘ _Take me’,_ he ordered, licking my ear, feasting on my shudder. _‘Fill me’_ , he breathed, and I could come just to that sound.

Delirious, I think I just spat in my hand, stroked myself twice, then grabbed his thighs and lifted him up against the altar, thrusting in without a thought. He screamed, not entirely in pleasure, and I wished I could apologize, but he was so tight I couldn’t focus. I was lost, I was damned, I was nothing more than moth to a flame. Drunk with wine and mad with lust, he forgot to bite on his cries, and all I could do was to kiss them mute.

 

He’s never been heavy, and I felt powerful. So, I took the time, _played_ him a little, slowing down when I felt him tense, stopping dead if I had to. He growled and hissed and cursed, one of his hands flying to grab the altar’s frame, his unfocused eyes rising to the faded Holy Cross painted on the ceiling two hundred years ago, God, had this place even been deconsecrated?

 

He didn’t look like he cared much. He let me pound him against the ancient wall, his cries echoing on the naked walls of the small, forgotten place.

 

At some point, mostly because I had reached my own limits, I grabbed his cock and thrusted harder, earning a high-pitched yell as the sweetest of rewards. I might have lost track of the world at that time, I don’t remember much. Nothing mattered more than the fire in my guts, the violent pleasure he was giving me. I had no idea where my skin ended, when his began, lost to madness in the curve of his neck.

All I know is that he started shuddering, spasming around me, soiling my doublet in hot semen, and while I too came hard, moaning against his shoulder, I felt him drawing my own pistol out of my belt in five quick moves, and the gunshot, right next to my ear, shattered my breath in pieces.

 

 

I blinked, once, twice, dizzy and panting against him, before I dared to look aside and try to understand. I hadn’t dreamed. He was still there, pinned against the wall by my whole body, his legs encircling my hips. Pale as a sheet, one hand on the altar frame, this other arm stretched out, using my shoulder as support, he was pointing my own pistol right behind my back.

 

I gasped, panicked, and looked over my shoulder.

 

Armand had just killed a man.

 

 

 

And here I am, still deep inside him, staring at the way the dead man’s blood draws arabesques upon the chapel’s floor, unable to do anything else than blaming the Jurançon.

-“ _Holy shit, Armand!_ ” I rasp, pulling out as gently as I could, easing his descent to the floor with my arms around his waist.

He looks calm enough, but he certainly still needs the wall to stand up. I quickly tuck myself back in, and loosen his rigid fingers away from my gun one by one. I sheathe it neatly, asking him what the hell happened while I fold the lapels of his robes tight against his trembling frame.

-“I don’t know.” He mutters. “He pushed the door and slipped in while we were… I didn’t think it through.”

 

-“Oh, really?” I sneer, pointing at the corpse.  “That’s what happens when you don’t _think things through_?”

 

I walk to the dead man, kneeling next to him with a flinch. God, _bull’s eye_. The bullet went right between the eyebrows, range close enough to pop the back of the man’s skull right open. Even I wouldn’t have been that good of a shot _during orgasm_. I have a quick stare for Armand, between amazement and suspicion. Holding his unbuttoned robes tight against himself, he just shrugs.

I sigh.  
That man is impossible.

 

I start searching the corpse’s clothes. He is certainly no gardener. His clothes are a valet’s attire, but one of upper-hand quality. He must be a sommelier, or a high-graded cook, and since he doesn’t show any sign of recent traveling, he must be working here at the Louvres, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face.

 

-“Do you know him?” I ask Armand, my hands deep into the man’s pockets.

 

Richelieu steps forward, gingerly, glancing down at the man’s broken face, and though I didn’t think he could, he grows paler. He gulps, and shakes his head.

-“He hasn’t been around the King’s table this week.” He breathes. “I know, because as I told you yesterday, we fear some revenge plot from Montmorency’s friends in Paris, and I had all courtiers, servants and guests checked twice every day.”

I nod. He told me about Gaston’s latest comedy act. D’orléans paid the Duke of Montmorency a fortune to secretly raise an army against the King. I had to battle in two different cities to crush their troops, and Armand had to gather all of father Joseph’s network of monk spies to intercept sufficient evidence. When Richelieu showed the letters to the King, Montmorency was still at court babbling praise to Louis’ every word.

The decapitation is scheduled next week.

 

I find nothing on the dead man. Armand keeps staring at the corpse’s glistening teeth, buttoning up his robes in anguished silence. After what the man had seen, Armand would have been likely to get him killed anyways, but shooting an innocent man to the ground is quite harder to swallow than signing his execution order.

Thus, though I know I am speaking to a man who starved a whole city to death, I still think out loud, mostly to reassure him.

 

-“Listen, there are only two possibilities. Either this man meant no harm, and just heard us through the door, though that ancient gate is thick enough to hide a quartering,  or he didn’t hear us, and came here looking for something, or to meet someone.”

 

Armand frowns, thinking quick, and slides to the door. He pulls it ajar, glances outside, but soon enough he shakes his head. No one in sight.

-“Had anyone been near, “ he lets out in resignation, “the gunshot might have been sufficient clue as to the adjournment of the meeting.”

I nod again.

-“Let’s assume he came looking for something.” I add, sweeping a tired gaze around the chapel.

 

This is nothing more than a wide closet, barely large enough for ten men to stand in. The walls have been bared to the cold stone, only a carved frieze and a few ancient roman paintings surviving. Only the stone structure of the altar is still standing, with the remnants of the wooden altarpiece.

The rest, all around, are gardening tools, firewood and old buckets.

-“Where do you hide something in a place like this?” I ask Armand, before he starts worrying again.

 

He has a noncommittal wave of his hand while he ponders, then walks to the right side of the altar, pointing at a few dozen worm-eaten planks resting there against the wall.

-“There should be a credence there.” He states. “Something like a cabinet, carved inside the wall. Every chapel has one, for the chalice and Mass wine.”

 

I sigh, gently push him aside, and kick the thick rotten planks until they crumble to mush at our feet. Behind them, just as he assumed, a small hole in the wall where there used to be a cabinet, the iron hinges of the door still visible.

 

In that hole in the wall, neatly stacked upon each other, twenty vials of what Armand recognizes as pure monkshood oil.

On top of them, a sealed envelope from the Duke of Montmorency’s son, Philippe. Inside, very detailed instructions about how and when to mix each of these vials into the meals of twenty members of the Court, including the King, Richelieu, and to my utter shock, _myself._

Armand shudders, and I am sure what he just hissed under his breath was quite nasty. He has a furious glance for the dead man behind us, murmuring:

 

-“Now I wish I could resurrect him, torture him until he talks, and shoot him dead again.”

 

I let out a bitter laugh, still dumbfounded by the size of the catastrophe Richelieu just saved France from. _By shooting a man because he had seen us having sex._

 

Truly, what were the odds.

 

Bloody Jurançon.

 

 

I watch his fingers fiddle with the instructions letter for a while, his eyes lost in the crumbling wall paintings, his thinking no doubt already ten steps ahead of my own, and when I gently remind him we don’t have all night, he only declares:

 

-“We must inform the King.”

 

-“Oh, absolutely!” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Tell Louis you just shot a man dead without a warning or a question. Go ahead, you’re not hated and feared enough anyways.”

 

He clenches his jaw, lifting his chin up, the storm of outrage brewing in his eyes, and I sense the speech coming, but I swear I don’t have time for this. I raise both my hands, a gesture of peace, and I whisper, resolute:

 

-“I’ll take full responsibility of the shot. My gun, my hand. A blunt soldier can be expected to act that recklessly, not the head of the King’s Council. Not a bloody Roman Catholic _Cardinal_.”

 

The storm is washed away in a heartbeat, replaced by clear skies of surprise and thankfulness. He doesn’t speak, he just takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. His dark stare above my fingers is burning so bright I have to look away, because the limitless _intensity_ of that man often makes my head spin. I can’t believe how tempted I am to lick a path down his neck again, while right behind my back, a fresh corpse is getting cold.

How insane have I become?

-“Now,” he softly muses, “there’s only a small detail left : how exactly are we going to explain Louis what we were doing here in the first place?”

 

I wince, swearing loudly.

He tuts, and signs my forehead.

 

 

***

 

 

-“Cardinal, Treville, your alacrity has saved us from unmeasurable grief.”

 

Armand pulls out his most elegant half-bow, a well-mastered lie forged specially to make people believe he’s more humbled than proud.

I just nod.

 

Louis, still pale and shaken from having been roused in the early morning with news of another plot unveiled, sighs in relief, ordering five of his Guards to arrest Montmorency’s son today. As the men salute and leave, he bites his lips, staring at the letter Richelieu slid into his hands with a wooden box containing the twenty vials.

 

-“This was a slaughter in the making. That cook Montmorency recruited was among the most trusted of my staff. Is everyone around me so _drenched with sin_?”

 

I cough, avert my eyes.

Armand stands perfectly still.

 

Louis frowns, looking up at us from his own bed, rubbing the last remnants of sleep off the corner of his eyes.

 

-“How have you come to discover these?” he asks, _alright, here we go._

 

Richelieu straightens his back a little, exhales, opens his mouth, and both Louis and I know we’re in for half an hour.  Since the King looks tired, Armand looks worn-out, and I could use a fucking nap, I cut him short and speak:

 

-“I was walking the Cardinal back to his palace for safety reasons. The Cardinal and I started discussing the strategy used during the two last battles against Montmorency’s troops. We had … slightly divergent point of views.”

 

Louis huffs a knowing laugh, and his worried stare softens with fondness.

 

-“You were arguing again, weren’t you?” He throws at us, and Armand takes half a step back, suddenly captivated by the feet of the King’s bed.

 

-“Yes.” I nod

 

Louis chuckles.

 

-“As it is against both our discipline to discuss military strategies in public,” I add, “we decided to move our debate into a quieter place, such as the former East Wing chapel.”

 

-“You wanted no witnesses in case you needed to punch him.” Louis deadpans.

 

Richelieu gasps, joining his hands upon his chest in a perfect sign of flouted innocence, but as the King truly laughs this time, he is wise enough not to interrupt.

 

-“Yes, Your Majesty.” I claim. “The cook arrived in the middle of our… discussion. My judgement was clouded by my irritation. I shot the intruder.”

 

Armand sighs, squeezes his eyes shut, one slender hand coming to rub the brink of his nose in utmost lassitude. I have no idea, between my forgery and his hangover, what is causing him that headache, but it isn’t going to be a soft one.

Silence falls. Five, ten seconds.

 

-“You shot a man who happened to pass by, “ Louis gently states, “because you were angry.”

 

-“Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

The King stares at me with disbelief, amazement, and the slightest bit of fear. I stand at attention, face as blank as I could, unable to tell if it’s worry or laughter I’m fighting.

But after a while, Louis slowly shakes his head, blinking a few times, and dismisses both of us with a tired sentence about how wild temperaments that might be very useful to the Crown upon a battlefield should be tamed and controlled at Court.

Armand praises the king’s wisdom in carefully chosen words, and grants me five seconds of a heavy, reproachful bloodshot glare as I hold the door open for him.

But as we walk in silence towards his apartments, I know he adjusts his pace to stay close to mine, I sense his eyes softening, and if he thinks I don’t notice his hand twitching towards mine as he opens the doors to his study, well, he’s more damaged than I thought.

 

I step in, close the door behind us, and watch him collapse on a chair with the funniest groan I have never heard from him. He’s right, though, he’s right indeed.

 

What a night.

 

_Foutu Jurançon._

 

 

 


End file.
